Wordle #175


My bones stutter in your absence

Such is longing, such is language

When the subject sustains bafflement.

I dust the rifts, the rickety cliffs

Ribs pulled open like a silk blouse.

You will never know the weight

Of this cart in occupancy,

The necessity of your gravity

In the consolation of my preemptive flights.

You will never know my devastation,

The vain rhetorical couplings

As I preach to a staccato moon.